


What Might Happen Tomorrow

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Series: The Dhampir Cycle [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dhampir, Family, Family Secrets, Kinks, M/M, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finally comes to terms with himself, his family, and his relationships. (He may not have come to terms with Sherlock yet.)</p><p>Fourth fic in the Dhampir Cycle.  Written pre-S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Might Happen Tomorrow

_I have never met a vampire personally, but I don't know what might happen tomorrow._

-Bela Lugosi

 

 

John took a crackle-spined old book out from the bottom of his footlocker.

 

‘This,’ he said, pointing to a strange illustration amid the foreign script, inked with vibrant colours and uneven lines, ‘is what I am.’

 

‘You don’t look like that,’ said Sherlock, obviously.

 

‘Dhampir.  Can you say it?’

 

Sherlock looked at him, clearly about to say something sarcastic, but he held himself back.  ‘Dhampir,’ he said, pronouncing it perfectly.

 

 

It had been many years since John had seen his father, but of course he was the same.  It was like stepping into a memory—nothing about him had changed—his tanned face, his dark, curling hair (raked through now with a false smattering of white, for appearances), the shadow round his jaw where his beard would be if he didn’t shave it off every morning, if he let it stay there after it grew back every night.  The only difference was that John looked older, having borne his mortal mother’s susceptibility to wrinkles, greying hairs and (to a certain extent) age, just as he bore her surname.

 

‘I’ve found someone,’ said John as they sat at the table, warm glasses in their hands.  ‘Two someones, actually, and I don’t know what to do about it.’

 

‘You must trust them.’  It was both an observation and instruction.  His father raised one dark, bushy brow.  ‘Do they know?’

 

John nodded.  ‘They do now.  I felt it was only right to tell them.’

 

His father sighed, topping off his glass from the carafe that stood between them on the table.  ‘And that, I think, is where you and Harry differ.  I love your sister more than life, but she is far too much the daughter of my... less admirable traits.’

 

John had never gone to his father for advice, preferring to ask Harry, disagree fiercely with her and through his anger work out the situation, himself.  But there were times when only a father’s advice would help, instilled as he was with the wisdom of ages John had yet to experience.

 

‘What should I do, Dad?’

 

His father gave him a long, searching look.  ‘Do you love them?’

 

John fretted with his fingers.  He cared about Sherlock so much that it hurt, sometimes; and to be with Mike, so accepting and sensible, was a beautiful comfort to him.  He would happily give his life for either of them, but was that what love was?  John thought of Harry, how she was never alone because she hunted every night and longed for the connection that only death could bring; John thought of his father, of how before the weak rays of dawn would usher him to sleep he would sit before his study fire, holding a photograph of his departed wife, eyes closed in memory, smiling as if he were in some glorious dream.  ‘I don’t know.’

 

‘Find that out,’ his father advised, ‘before doing anything... foolish.’

 

As the moon climbed the stations of the sky they sat on the ivy-hung porch, the dogs dozing at their feet.

 

‘They’re getting old,’ John said, scratching the ears of his favourite of the two corgis.

 

‘So am I, son,’ his father sighed, peering out over the moonstruck lawn.  ‘I ought to move on, soon.’

 

John looked up, a question in his eyes.  His father had talked about it, when John and Harry were children: the need to establish one’s self in a place and stay there for long enough to be remembered, to age, to appear to die, to move on and start again.  Somehow, John hadn’t thought it would happen in—well, not ‘in his lifetime’, that was ridiculous; if John continued to drink he’d continue to live.  But still, the idea of his father leaving was strange—leaving the house, the wood behind it, leaving the village where he’d come to be known as the handsome, foreign widower with his grown-up children, who worked nights because he translated proposals for businessmen in different time zones.  John had to struggle to wrap his mind round it, a hole in the village where they had been, a hole that nothing could fill.

 

‘Where will you go?’

 

‘I’m thinking of going back to Serbia,’ his father said.  ‘I have family there.’

 

John found himself blinking back a swell of tears, fists curled on his knees.  ‘You have family here, too, Dad.’

 

‘Come,’ said his father, getting to his feet, ‘I have something to show you.  It’s high time you had it.’

 

From behind the books on the top shelf in his father’s study—books of lore organised by their varying degrees of accuracy—John’s father took down a yellowed envelope, addressed in a tidy, slanting hand.

 

 _To my John, when he is grown._

John looked at his father, hesitant.  ‘This is from Mum?’

 

His father nodded.  John, fumbling, opened the envelope and unfolded the letter within.

 

 _My son, I can only hope that you don’t hate me_ , it began.  _As I write this the machines are beeping steadily, but I know in my bones it won’t last much longer.  Dragomir_ (for that was John’s father’s name) _is sitting at the foot of the bed, holding you, and your sister’s in a bassinet beside me.  She finally got to sleep, thank God.  She’s always screaming._

 _I know the labour was too much for me—I’ve never been very strong.  Perhaps that’s why I was attracted to Dragomir, he’s so strong, so peaceful.  His name suits him._

 _I know your father will explain to you why you’re different, how differently you’ll have to live.  I know it will be hard for you, or at least I assume it will be; you’re so small in his arms, all blotched and grumpy and alive!  My heart aches, knowing I won’t see you grow up, but I know your father will do his best to raise you and Harriet.  Please understand that it will not be my choice to leave you; I begged Dragomir to change me, to save me from this, but he won’t.  I don’t resent him for it; I would despise myself if he were to change me and it were to drive a wedge between us.  I would gladly go to death rather than live apart from him.  I can only hope that you understand._

 _Part of me hopes that he’ll find someone new to carry on with him.  I don’t want him to be alone, but of course he has you and Harriet, our lovely children, so perhaps his life won’t be too lonely after all.  I have given you both my name rather than his; it’s common, and can fit in anywhere.  We felt it was best.  Besides, ‘John Ruthven’ sounds like a cross old barrister or something.  I do hope you don’t become a cross old barrister, John.  I hope you become a sterling young man, with principles and a sense for people, like your father._

 _I don’t know if there’s an afterlife.  I’m a little afraid.  But I suppose, as Dragomir tells me so often, it’s far better to believe something good with all of your being, only to have it not be true, than to live in fear of pain that may never come._

 _You’re such a beautiful baby, John.  You’ve got this silly tuft of hair that sticks up at the back of your head, and your eyes are so blue it makes me weep to see them, it’s like my eyes are looking out at me from your little face._

 _Please remember to follow your heart, even if it scares you.  It’s hard, I can say from experience, but the result is joy._

 _You will outlive me, but you will never outlive my love for you._

 

John refolded the letter, wiping the tears brusquely from his face.  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

 

His father hugged him.  ‘You’re a good boy, John.’

 

‘You’re really going to move on?’ John asked, slipping the letter into his pocket and trying to keep his voice steady.  ‘Start a new life?’

 

‘When the dogs go, I’ll make my arrangements.’

 

John nodded, a lump in his throat.  ‘I’ll sign your death certificate.’

 

 

‘Mike,’ John said into the phone the next evening, ‘I know what I want to do.’

 

‘What’s that, then?’  Mike had his phone on speaker, and John could hear him doing the washing-up in the background.

 

‘Follow my heart, even if it scares me.’

 

Mike made an approving noise over the clink of dishes and water-sounds.  ‘And where’s it leading you?’

 

John sighed.  ‘No fucking idea.’

 

‘I’m pretty sure,’ said Mike, switching the phone back onto handset, his voice suddenly closer, clearer, ‘that when your heart decides where it’s going, you’ll notice.’

 

 

John stood before the mirror over the bathroom sink, subjecting himself to his own scrutiny.  It was funny, how the stories said that his sort didn’t have reflections; when he was young, John had compulsively checked every reflective surface, just to make sure he could still see himself, but now, thoroughly convinced that he existed, John didn’t bother with it so much.

 

He rumpled his hair into a more interesting shape and put on his darkest, sharpest clothes; a symbol not of his mood, but of its transformation.  He thought he looked ridiculous, like he had just rolled out of bed and hastily dressed for a funeral, but it was only for show, after all, just for the others to get the message: he had changed sides.  After one last glance at himself—just to be sure, just in case—John left the room, left the flat, and made his way to the club.

 

Charisma greeted him from behind the bar, as always.  ‘Gosh!  Look at you, all fancy.’  She gave John an appraising look.  ‘You’ll certainly catch a lot of eyes tonight.  Can’t call you Mun anymore, can I, now?’

 

‘I’ve got a name,’ he said.  ‘It’s John.’

 

She grinned at him.  ‘Well, that’s a bit of a mundane name.  I suppose it’ll have to do.’

 

John inclined his head, thanking her for her facetious approval.  ‘What’s the crowd like tonight?’

 

‘Well, the twins should be coming by later, Ophie and Rasputin just arrived, and Damian’s got his new girl with him.  Of course Trystian’s here—’

 

‘Bastard never leaves,’ John finished the line for her.

 

‘And there’re some fishy sorts.  You know,’ Charisma lowered her voice as if she were blaspheming before the altar of a church, ‘ _dabblers_.’

 

John looked very seriously at her, his voice deadpan.  ‘I’ll watch my back, they might have stakes.’

 

Charisma laughed, her dangling earrings clinking against the beads of her dreadfall.  ‘Hey, John?’ she said as he moved to pull aside the heavy velvet curtain that led to the lounge.  ‘I’m glad you’ve finally,’ she pitched her voice deep and rasping, ‘ _embraced the dark side._ ’

 

‘It’s a work in progress,’ said John.  ‘Wish me luck.’  And he entered the lounge.

 

The night started out slowly, but as it was the weekend, by the time eleven o’clock came and went the lounge was packed, every chaise and overstuffed armchair occupied by at least two people, if not more, several wafer-thin girls dancing in front of the fireplace, swirling their hands in flower-shapes to something by Depeche Mode that bled through the speakers, a pair of almost identically-dressed boys snogging each other against a glass-fronted curio cabinet full of black lights, the hum of talk and blissful sighs floating over it all, mingled with the incense like a heady smoke.

 

John barely noticed when someone new, someone he’d never seen there before, drew back the curtain and entered the room, but John certainly realised it when the man came straight to him through the crowd and knelt before the armchair John occupied, bowing his head.

 

‘Good evening, Master John,’ said Sherlock, speaking the familiar lines humbly and with feeling, ‘have you had your fill?’

 

John was startled, conflicted for a moment, but gave in, allowing himself, despite his uncharacteristic costume, to be himself.  ‘Not as yet.  Come,’ he took Sherlock’s hand, turning it to kiss the inside of his wrist, before rising to his feet, bringing Sherlock up with him, ‘let me drink of your life.’

 

 

Sherlock pinned him against the wall of the stairwell, panting, desperate, tossing John’s jacket heedlessly over the banister.  ‘John, _now_.’

 

John easily wrenched his hands free of Sherlock’s grip, whirling round, pinning Sherlock roughly against the wall, instead.  ‘We’re halfway up the stairs!  Have some patience, for God’s sake.’

 

When John let go Sherlock practically dragged him up to the flat, moving too quickly, fumbling the keys and cursing until John said, ‘My room’s unlocked, come on.’

 

They didn’t even bother to close the door all the way, not caring, kissing fiercely, Sherlock stepping backwards until John’s mattress bumped the backs of his legs, pulling John with him, connected by their mouths.  Sherlock’s hands flew over the buttons of John’s shirt, popping them free (almost popping them off in a few cases), and John, not as quickly, undid the buttons on Sherlock’s coat.

 

‘You wear too many layers,’ John complained fondly, actually rather enjoying the protracted anticipation of having to see to Sherlock’s scarf, jacket, and finally, _finally_ the shirt underneath.

 

Sherlock was toeing off his shoes, impatiently yanking off his socks, stepping out of his trousers and kicking them aside, trying to get bare as soon as possible, anxious for vulnerability, leaving John to tend to his own stripping-off.  ‘Is your room always this cold?’

 

John shrugged, undoing his belt.  ‘I don’t notice, really.’

 

Naked, Sherlock sprawled out across John’s bed, his hands and feet hanging off the edges.  ‘I feel like I should say something terribly alluring right now.  Should I?’

 

‘You’re fucking gorgeous, I don’t care,’ said John, overbalancing a little as he took off his socks, almost falling on top of Sherlock.  ‘Oof, sorry.’

 

‘Hungry _and_ clumsy?’ Sherlock teased him.  ‘Your life must be so hard, John.’

 

John glared at him sarcastically for a moment before climbing onto the bed, half-straddling him, kissing him with renewed fervour as the feel of their skin brushing in new and unexpected ways made him dizzy with want.  He let his hands skid along Sherlock’s chest and down, skimming his thighs and the jut of his cock between them, but Sherlock batted his hand away impatiently.

 

‘ _Please_ ,’ Sherlock begged, his voice ragged, eyes wide, ‘you said you would, John, you _promised_.’

 

John hadn’t forgotten.  ‘Neck or wrist?’

 

‘Neck,’ Sherlock replied breathlessly, arching into him, tilting his head back as far as he comfortably could, baring his throat to John in one long, lean, uninterrupted line.

 

John hesitated, his mind fogged with hunger and need, not knowing how to explain properly.  ‘Do you—do you want the peace?’

 

Sherlock shook his head, not knowing what he meant and not giving a damn either way.  ‘No, I want _you_ , I want it, _please—_ ’

 

‘All right,’ said John quickly, ‘stop squirming for a second, would you?’

 

‘Hnngh,’ Sherlock groaned wordlessly, trying not to move even as their cocks brushed and dragged together as John leaned over him to mouth gently against his throat, and he whispered in a needy litany, ‘ _please_ John, _pleasepleaseplease, yes_ —’

 

John found the artery without any trouble, thundering as it was with Sherlock’s racing heartbeat, but the feel of it beneath his lips brought him sharply back to the reality of the situation and he pulled back, looking Sherlock in the eyes.  ‘If I don’t give you the peace, it’ll hurt—I’m not going to lie, it’ll hurt a hell of a lot.  You’ll feel every second of it.’

 

If anything, this information made Sherlock quake even more strongly, biting his lip, whimpering, trying to be still, his nails stinging into John’s back.  ‘I want to feel it, John, _God_ , just bite me already!  I don’t _care_.’

 

John held Sherlock down, trapping his forearms over his head, letting his fangs extend and swiftly, like a striking cobra, John sunk them into Sherlock’s pale and waiting neck.

 

In the half-second of no reaction that followed, John steeled himself for the inevitable struggle, for the regretful terror as the full range of pain became real, for Sherlock to tear himself away, horrified—but it never arrived.  Instead, as John felt the blood well rapidly to the surface like a river breaking its banks, as he began to drink, Sherlock’s eyes rolled back and from the depths of his chest came a long, low, twisted sound, gritty and raw but undeniably wanton.

 

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Sherlock ground out sharply through clenched teeth, somehow managing to hiss a word entirely without sibilants, bucking erratically, his cock frotting against John’s hip as he clutched at him.  ‘ _Yes_ , John, drain me, _take_ it, _yes, yes—!’_

John took up the count in his head, monitoring the time, making sure he didn’t drink too much even though, with Sherlock clawing at his back and making those deliciously helpless noises, it would be terribly difficult to stop when the time came.

 

 _One, one-thousand_

 _Two, one-thousand_

‘So _sharp_ ,’ Sherlock was moaning, ‘God, the pain, it’s— _fuck, yes!_ ’

 

His blood was delicious, flowing into John, hot and thick and better, in that moment, than anything he could imagine.

 

 _Three, one-thousand_

 _Four, one-thousand_

‘So perfect, John, John, it _hurts_ , it’s _beautiful_ , please don’t stop, please, _please_ —’

 

 _Five, one thousand_

 

John wrapped his hand round Sherlock’s cock, moving only slightly, gently, coaxingly.

 

 _Six, one thousand_

He could feel his senses sharpening, vibrant feeling singing through his limbs as he swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed again.

 

Sherlock thrust into John’s hand, moaning wordlessly, now, unable to articulate further, his cries mounting in volume and pitch.

 

 _Seven, one-thousand_

 _Eight, one-thousand_

 _Nine, one-thousand_

 

And Sherlock screamed as he came, just as he had said he would, his face contorted into an expression of lost, disorientated fulfilment as he arched up into John, pressing the length of their bodies together.

 

 _Ten._

 

John pulled back, reluctantly, sealing the punctures just as his father had taught him, looking down at Sherlock.  He was a mess: dark curls a tangled mess from his thrashing, his forehead dappled with sweat, pupils wide and black, cheeks flushed hotly, lips bitten and swollen full.  John kissed him, blood on his lips and tongue, letting him taste.

 

Sherlock purred with pleasure, writhing a little before his body relaxed with a long, sated sigh.

 

John sat up and licked his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  ‘God, you’re talkative in bed.’  He smiled a little.  ‘Didn’t know you were a masochist.’

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, though his eyes remained closed.  When he spoke he enunciated very clearly and crisply, with a lot of top-spin on certain syllables, like a particular sort of drunk.  ‘I’m not a masochist, you ri _di_ culous man.’

 

‘Without you having had any sort of anaesthesia, I just sucked a pint of blood out of a pair of holes I stabbed into your neck with my _teeth_ ,’ John noted, ‘and you rolled around like it was the best thing in the world.’

 

‘Shut up, John,’ Sherlock told him, waving a limp hand in his direction, fighting to focus his eyes.  ‘You’ve got to stop moving around like that now, please, because I am going to suck your cock.’

 

John laughed, getting up and throwing on Sherlock’s coat; it was long enough to cover everything, and John didn’t quite feel like pulling trousers on just then.  ‘No you’re not, Sherlock.’

 

‘Where are you going?’ Sherlock asked, looking somehow adorable, all slack-limbed and exhausted with his feet hanging off the bed.

 

‘I’m going to fetch you some biscuits and a glass of orange juice,’ John told him.

 

‘But I’m not hungry,’ Sherlock protested faintly, ‘except for more of you.’

 

John kissed his forehead.  ‘Trust me.  I’m a doctor, remember?’

 

‘Oh, yes,’ Sherlock sighed.  ‘Yes, there is that aspect of things, I suppose.’

 

 

On the night of his sixteenth birthday, after the argument with his father, John opened his window and climbed down the trellis.  He went into the wood, vision keen and wondrous in the dark, and sat down on the fallen tree where he usually sulked after fighting with Harry, where he had sat and cried and resolved to be normal.  John took out the album in his mind, full of images of average, happy, unremarkable people, and cradled the possibility for awhile.  Then, biting his lip, he put the album away, tucked it back into the secret place he kept it behind his other thoughts.  Determined, knowing he was weak, knowing he wasn’t, John rose to his feet and went into the village to hunt.

 

 

 ‘I’m going out.’

 

‘Round the pub?’ Sherlock asked, smirking.

 

‘No,’ said John, slinging on his coat.  ‘I’m going to Stamford’s for dinner.’

 

‘Oh.’  Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, concern and appraisal passing over his face like shadows.  ‘That’s fine.  Save room for dessert.’

 

 

After he was full, and after Mike had come to his senses again, they lay looking up at the ceiling and talked.

 

‘I care for him,’ said John, licking a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth.  ‘I care for him awfully, and yet there’s still this... God, this _antagonism_.’

 

Mike chuckled, kissing John’s temple.  ‘This is Sherlock we’re talking about.  Naturally there’s going to be some antagonism.’

 

‘Still don’t know if he’s using me,’ John sighed, rubbing his eyes.  ‘Or if I’m using him, come to that.’

 

Mike shifted onto his side, laying a hand on John’s chest, drawing little circles with his fingers.  It wasn’t meant to be seductive, simply idle; a comfortable movement in a familiar scene.  ‘You’ll know soon enough.’

 

‘I think I’d hate myself if I were using him and didn’t realise.’

 

Mike smiled fondly at him.  ‘You’re going to fight, John, that’s a given.  You’re going to fight, and track down murderers, and bicker and fuck and make up and do it over again before you realise you’ve done it at all.  But that’s what relationships are, John.  They’re messy, but it doesn’t matter because they’re wonderful.’

 

John kissed him, tasting of melancholy.  ‘I hope you’re right.’

 

‘Oh, I probably am.  Just—as a favour—don’t give up when things get hard, all right?  Don’t give up when he throws tantrums and whines.  Don’t give up when he ignores you, or does stupid shit and doesn’t understand normal emotions.  If you give up, where’s the adventure?  Every Louis,’ Mike added, snuggling into him, ‘needs his Lestat.’


End file.
